âA tiny dose,â her doctor said, âlike nothing at all,â almost nonchalantly. Clio filled the prescription. Held the little bottle in her hands. When she took the first pill, swallowing it down with water from Smithâs tap, she cried. This wasnât nothing for her.
After a few weeks, the medicine kicked in and she felt a new softness, a haze folding over her. The world seemed lighter and kinder, muted almost. She slept soundly. She stopped dreaming of falling buildings and plunging bodies, of dark plumes of smoke, of strangersâ faces, of swollen eyes, of her mother sedated on a hospital bed in New Haven. When she did wake up in the night, she wasnât throttled with fear.
But she didnât feel like herself. Before this, she didnât even know what this meantâ feeling like herself âbut when it was gone, it felt like a loss. She missed the intensity, the rawness of the world, the ups and the downs. She even missed the panic attacks that had plagued her since the beginning of college. After many months, she called her doctor and said she wanted to wean off, and she did. Her doctor prescribed Xanax and told her to take it when she felt particularly anxious. This seemed to work, but sometimes it was difficult to catch the anxiety before it blew up. But one thing helped most. Wandering here, to thepark, specifically to the Ramble, the tangled wilderness at its center. When it was too cold and she was feeling panicky, sheâd take refuge in the dark, damp halls of the ornithology collection at the Museum of Natural History instead. In these places, she felt she could breathe.
âI think back to the beginning,â Clio says, smiling, âand I was so intent on knowing every little thing about the Ramble and I prepared all of these notes, a cheat sheet almost, and I came up with all these ideas about the virtues of getting lost, about the wilderness of the world, and it was so unnecessary because I realized that these people could do their own Internet searches and collect all the information in the world, but they would come on my walks to find some quiet. They come to see birds and to escape, to breathe, not to be lectured. You know, I met Henry right here on this bench after one of my walks.â
Patrick nods. âYes, I know all about this bench.â
âYou do?â Clio says, incredulous, thinking again about that day last May.
It had rained that morning. It was a quick, furious pour and in its aftermath, the park was a glistening green. Clio and her walkers had ducked into Belvedere Castle for the thick of it and then resumed, soon serenaded by the Warbling Vireoâs sweet songs. A Baltimore Oriole flitted back and forth from a nest in an oak tree.
After the tour, there he was, Henry, then just a curious stranger, a man with black hair sitting on the bench sheâd come to think of as hers. From the short distance, a few yards at most, he struck her as pristine and professorial; he wore a tweed jacket more fitting for fall, a pair of gray slacks. He was hunched over, his head cradled in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. She wondered if he was crying or sleeping or drunk.
Her first instinct was to find a new spot, but the moment she began to turn away, the man lifted his head and looked at her. Oh, that first look. It was not the look of a stranger. There was nothing perfunctory about this inaugural glance. There was so much packed in thereâwarmth, sadness, curiosity, desire. His eyes were the ticket. A blazing blue inthe post-rain noon sunlight, they shone from behind heavy, sleepy lids. His cheeks, she saw now, were wet. There was no question he had been crying, but about what? He drew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes and sniffled and smiled. And, again, this smile was rare, not run-of-the-mill, not a conciliatory, casual thing, but edged in mystery and meaning. He nodded toward the bench and uttered one word.
After a few weeks, the medicine kicked in and she felt a new softness, a haze folding over her. The world seemed lighter and kinder, muted almost. She slept soundly. She stopped dreaming of falling buildings and plunging bodies, of dark plumes of smoke, of strangersâ faces, of swollen eyes, of her mother sedated on a hospital bed in New Haven. When she did wake up in the night, she wasnât throttled with fear.
But she didnât feel like herself. Before this, she didnât even know what this meantâ feeling like herself âbut when it was gone, it felt like a loss. She missed the intensity, the rawness of the world, the ups and the downs. She even missed the panic attacks that had plagued her since the beginning of college. After many months, she called her doctor and said she wanted to wean off, and she did. Her doctor prescribed Xanax and told her to take it when she felt particularly anxious. This seemed to work, but sometimes it was difficult to catch the anxiety before it blew up. But one thing helped most. Wandering here, to thepark, specifically to the Ramble, the tangled wilderness at its center. When it was too cold and she was feeling panicky, sheâd take refuge in the dark, damp halls of the ornithology collection at the Museum of Natural History instead. In these places, she felt she could breathe.
âI think back to the beginning,â Clio says, smiling, âand I was so intent on knowing every little thing about the Ramble and I prepared all of these notes, a cheat sheet almost, and I came up with all these ideas about the virtues of getting lost, about the wilderness of the world, and it was so unnecessary because I realized that these people could do their own Internet searches and collect all the information in the world, but they would come on my walks to find some quiet. They come to see birds and to escape, to breathe, not to be lectured. You know, I met Henry right here on this bench after one of my walks.â
Patrick nods. âYes, I know all about this bench.â
âYou do?â Clio says, incredulous, thinking again about that day last May.
It had rained that morning. It was a quick, furious pour and in its aftermath, the park was a glistening green. Clio and her walkers had ducked into Belvedere Castle for the thick of it and then resumed, soon serenaded by the Warbling Vireoâs sweet songs. A Baltimore Oriole flitted back and forth from a nest in an oak tree.
After the tour, there he was, Henry, then just a curious stranger, a man with black hair sitting on the bench sheâd come to think of as hers. From the short distance, a few yards at most, he struck her as pristine and professorial; he wore a tweed jacket more fitting for fall, a pair of gray slacks. He was hunched over, his head cradled in his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. She wondered if he was crying or sleeping or drunk.
Her first instinct was to find a new spot, but the moment she began to turn away, the man lifted his head and looked at her. Oh, that first look. It was not the look of a stranger. There was nothing perfunctory about this inaugural glance. There was so much packed in thereâwarmth, sadness, curiosity, desire. His eyes were the ticket. A blazing blue inthe post-rain noon sunlight, they shone from behind heavy, sleepy lids. His cheeks, she saw now, were wet. There was no question he had been crying, but about what? He drew a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his eyes and sniffled and smiled. And, again, this smile was rare, not run-of-the-mill, not a conciliatory, casual thing, but edged in mystery and meaning. He nodded toward the bench and uttered one word.
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